for either pleasure or enjoyments, no power to do the world either good or evil; and if he possessed all these, yet his extreme age would make him miserable in the midst of them, unsustained, as it must be, by any youthful feelings or prospects.

What, in all this busy world of happiness and suffering, of hope and disappointment, is there left, either of enjoyment or hope, for Robert to "give up?" Others have found it, and may still find it too hard for them to give up their real or expected earthly blessings, but he has drank off the bitter cup of poverty, obscurity, and degradation, to the very last dregs. Has not time robbed him of all, so that he has not the smallest thing left to give up? In the evening we heard that he had given up his spirit to God who gave it, and was no more a being of this world.

L. L***

[For the Monitor,]

66 CAN REVIVALS IN RELIGION BE ACCOUNTED FOR ON NATURAL PRINCIPLES?""

A revival of religion is the conversion of the impenitent in unusual numbers, or in the language of theory, the commencement of holy affections in their hearts. But it is a law of our nature, that no affections can be excited without the presentation of an object, and that these affections always conform to the moral character of the mind.

Accordingly, the holiness of God, contemplated by a holy being, uniformly calls forth the affection of holy love, while feelings of aversion are as uniformly excited in one destitute of holiness. And the more this truth, with all its loveliness, is made to bear on his moral vision, the more irksome it becomes, until absolute enmity begins to stir within him, and show itself in a thousand forms.

Here, then, is the natural effect of the best use of the best means in the power of man, toward producing

a revival of religion, and yet something totally opposite is the common result. Still revivals do sometimes follow the exhibition of divine truth. But to say the cause is the same when the result is opposite, is subversive of all uniformity in the relation of cause and effect, and therefore wholly inadmissible. The means and motives may be the same in both cases, but nothing can satisfactorily account for the difference of the result, but the supposition that man is the agent in one case; in the other, God.

So philosophy decides. And inspiration, as usual, lifts her voice in perfect accordance, and declares that every genuine revival, or in her more graphic language, every "turning unto the Lord," is effected, not by the power of truth, not by the ordinary influence of God, but by "the exceeding greatness of his power toward those who believe."

To say then, that all the revivals abroad in the land, whose influence is as lasting, at least, as life, and as happy as the wranklings of enmity, exchanged for the sweetness of love, can be accounted for on the natural principles of sympathy, of nervous affection, or of animal magnetism, and that they are exemplified in political excitemets, in the enthusiasm of theatres, or in the uncontrolable fury of the mob; is to assign a cause altogether inadequate and unsatisfactory. For all these causes combined, though they may convulse society, and revolutionize kingdoms, can never produce holy affections in a sinful heart, or any thing like a genuine revival of religion. The nature of the case forbids it. Besides, the bible denies the efficacy of all such means, by asserting that the heirs of heaven are born not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God.

To attempt to account for revivals of religion, then, on natural principles, is both unphilosophical and unscriptural, and betrays an unhappy ignorance of the character and effects of the phenomena in question, or something little short of absolute hostility to the progress of vital godliness among men.

H. S.

[For the Monitor.]

AL-MOHDI-AN EASTERN TALE.

EVERY situation in life has its peculiar and appropriate enjoyments. The prince must be content in his participation of pleasure, to forego the retirement and tranquility of the cottage, and the peasant the sumptuousness and splendour of the palace. The one may

amuse himself with the innocent prattle of his smiling children; the other may listen to the flatteries of his courtiers. The one may take pride in the management of his fields; the other in the government of his prov inces. The charms of nature in her most retired and neglected state, may fascinate the one; the displays of genius in the art which breathes, and the eloquence which burns, may animate the other. The one receives the caresses of a cheerful, happy family; the other the applauses of a flourishing and grateful nation. It would be difficult here to determine whose heart is best satisfied, and whose cup of enjoyment is fullest, that of the prince who reigns in the hearts of many, or that of the peasant, who reigns in the hearts of few. But it is not difficult to discover that their happiness must flow from very different sources.

Thus with every intermediate state, from the highest to the lowest of human being, all move in different spheres, and experience emotions of pleasure, arising from different objects, with which they are conversant. It is, however, very uncommon to find those who are sensible of these truths. Every one is inclined to think that the condition of another is better than his own. The peasant desires to be a prince; and the prince, it may be, wishes he were a peasant. The man of the town longs for the green fields, the rural festivities, and the otium cum dignitate of the country; the man of the country covets the rich dwellings, the splendid equipage and the fashionable amusements of the town. Thus life, in every stage and condition, is a constant state of inquietude and desire of change. This arises partly from our uneasiness at the unsatisfactory nature of our

present enjoyments, and partly from an illusion by which imagination cheats us into a belief, that the future is to be better than the past, by some change of circumstances and fortune. Blest is his cottage where contentment reigns. Blest is his bosom where peace dwells.

But how many abandon known pleasures, for those which are fancied and unknown. They forget that they are now happy and might remain so. They forget that very often it is not the sweetest cup that is the most wholesome; that it is not always the clearest stream that is the most salubrious. Poison may be mingled with the sweetest beverage, and contagion and death concealed beneath the most transparent waters.

"How magnificent," said Al-Mohdi, as he stole early from the city, and wandered along the banks of the Tigris, "how magnificent is this capital of my father, Al-Mansur, the proud metropolis of the Moslem empire." It was morning, and the perfumes of the Arabian spices were wafted by the early breeze. Every thing around him seemed to court the smile of the youthful Al-Mohdi. The wealth of the East was riding in his harbour. Plenty rolled in her abundance upon him from every quarter. All was peace and tranquillity throughout his dominions. Not a heart in his empire but loved him; not a tongue but blessed him; not a knee that would not bend to pay him willing homage. The virtues of the prince had ennobled the hearts of his subjects. The effects of his pacifice disposition were visible in the quietude and tranquillity of those whom he governed. As he wandered onward, he saw at a distance the cottages of the sleeping Arabs. On his right hand rolled the beautiful Tigris, and on his left, a herd of camels were cropping the luxuriance of the valley. Before him was a forest in all its wildness and luxuriance; and behind him the great, the majestic, the opulent Bagdad. Such was the prospect which ravished the eye of the transported Al-Mohdi. All was new, as it was delightful. He wandered onward unconscious whither he was directing his steps. He felt for once the happiness of being entirely disencumbered of the

retinue of his courtiers, who came daily, not to flatter and court his favour, but to pay him their willing homage, and proffer to him their best services. He was now out of hearing of the ceaseless hum of the busy city, which at this hour had begun to swarm with life. The sun had just shot his first mild rays athwart the horizon. Forgetful of the past and unmindful of the future, Al-Mohdi gazed with delight and admiration on every object presented to his eye. He contemplated with transport the scenery around him, and wondered that he should so long have remained ignorant of pleasures so fascinating, of enjoyment so exquisite. "Fool I was so long to suffer myself to be incarcerated in the royal palace of Irak; so long to be a slave to parasites and sycophants, who come to my table, partake of my bounties, and earn an extorted welcome by obsequiousness and flattery. Fool I was so long to deprive myself of enjoyment so invigorating, so innocent, so lasting.

The prince, enslaved to ambition, cherishing an insatiable desire for fame, and an unconquerable thirst for glory, is the prey of unceasing inquietude. His days are spent in the sickening splendor of a court, of which he is afraid. His nights are disturbed by waking and sleeping dreams of danger, or death. But yonder unambitious peasant knows not discontent. Allured

by no false dreams of greatness, his mind is tranquil, and his peace undisturbed. Far removed from desire of renown, he lives greatly independent. The ceaseless hum and bustle of a city life do not break in upon his repose. Supplied with a competency, he thinks of nothing more than to thank that Power who bestows it. The benediction of heaven rests upon his mansion. Were I an inmate of such a family, never would I quit it for all the wealth of Persia, or all the honours of the caliphs of the Saracens ! Solitude, how charming! Who cares for honours which we know to be not worth possessing. Who is the Grand Pacha of this whole empire ? A wretched starvling seated on a gilded throne. Who are the learned men of the Moslems? A set of wretched inquisitive gapers after trifles. In my soul I despise them and royalty itself. Man! What is